


Kalt Hand, Warmez Heart

by kat8cha



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Chess Metaphors, F/M, Gen, Hypothermia, M/M, POV Multiple, can be read as gen or ship fic, revamped with hopefully the right procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon crashed through a thin spot in the ice and thinks 'this is it, it's all over'. Illya is not about to let the Cowboy die that quickly and Gaby is utterly unsurprised at how flirtatious Napoleon tries to be despite turning blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kalt Hand, Warmez Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote the original version last month and it turned out that in my rush to finish it (despite the fact it took me ages to write) I hadn't done my research! Do not put people who are hypothermic in a bath! 
> 
> Someone going by TheMoreYouKnow (who I don't believe is actually an AO3 member as I attempted to gift this fic to them and it didn't work) commented on my glaring error and I couldn't, I just COULD NOT, live with myself. So I took the fic down and had to rework it.

It was times like this that Napoleon was grateful to his mother and her insistence that he learn to swim. 

The pond at his grandparent’s house had always been cold, not to mention filthy, but it had taught him a skill that had saved his life more than once. The water he pushed through now was colder than any he had ever experienced, quite literally ice cold. Above him the moon rippled, bright white against the dark sky, an obvious beacon to swim towards since several inches of snow blocked the light from reaching through the rest of the ice. 

If Napoleon glanced down, which he was not going to do, he might have had one last glimpse of his attacker as the unconscious man fell into the darkness below. The fight had taken more out of Napoleon than he wanted to acknowledge, or perhaps it was the cold, and his lungs ached for a breath of fresh air. If, when, he reached the hole he hoped he had the strength to punch through any ice. It should be thin, shouldn’t it? It couldn’t have been that long since they went through.

Where was Kuryakin? Sure, the man who had attacked could have been the product of a bizarre experiment to combine a man and a bear, but Kuryakin himself was part… part…

He was unsure if the darkness was closing in on his vision or if he had drifted away from the hole.

He blinked, fiercely, and kicked his feet. He would not allow a lake to defeat him. Not him! Not Napoleon Solo. If he let a little thing like icy cold water kill him Teller and Kuryakin would never let it go. Napoleon Solo, killed by a chilly puddle. His fists hit the ice and he let out the last of his air in a scream of bubbles.

He shouldn’t have let his anger and frustration and fear get the better of him.

A dark shape blocked out the moon and the ice shattered into shards, bits of them catching the moonlight as they shot past Napoleon, the darkness grabbed Napoleon’s front and yanked him forward.  
Into earth shatteringly cold air. 

The shock of it caused him to inhale sharply and his hungry lungs, while now feeling frozen, pushed him to take another breath. Kuryakin hauled him further out of the ice, dragged him through snow while he struggled to breath and stand. “Peril!” He exclaimed when he had finally been yanked onto his feet. “It-” his teeth began to chatter. “So.” He nearly bit his tongue. “Happy to.” He gave up as a shudder did make him bite his tongue. Illya continued to push and pull him towards the Ski-Doos their attackers had rode in on. They passed the corpse of the bear Illya had wrestled with surrounded by a pool of black liquid that glittered in the moonlight. Blood on the snow.

How poetic.

Kuryakin slapped him, which made Napoleon wonder if he had said so outloud. 

“Focus.” He was ordered. Then Kuryakin shoved him to sit on one of the snowmobiles. Napoleon, unsure if he could feel his toes, nodded jerkily. Illya frowned at him, a frown made of shadows and then turned to stalk towards their dead enemy.

“Give him a,” click, click clickity, click, “kick for m-m-me, Peril.”

Damn the cold.

Kuryakin shot him a look, what the look was supposed to mean Napoleon could not be sure, before he grabbed the back of the corpse’s coat and roughly stripped it from his body. The man’s boots followed.

“Wear these.” Illya ordered. He was halfway through a wind up before he thought better of it and walked the coat and boots over to Napoleon. He stripped Napoleon’s gloves off with a disgusting slick sound and thrust first the stolen snow clothes and then his own, miraculously dry, gloves into Napoleon’s lap. 

Napoleon pulled the large coat on gratefully but it did not make up for his ice-cold clothes. The boots of the man Illya had stabbed (presumably) were too big for him but they were, similarly, not wet. “Don’t.” He said when Illya moved to throw his own boots out into the snow. “Expensive.”

Kuryakin sighed. “Only for you, Cowboy.” Then he leaned close to place his bare hands on Napoleon’s face and tilt his chin upward.

His cold, cold bare hands.

It startled a laugh out of Napoleon. “H-how are your,” click, click, goddamn, click, “h-hands still co-colder than I am?”

He’d had enough of this shuddering, shaking, chattering business. It absolutely ruined his persona.   
Illya made a rude noise and turned away from Napoleon to throw his legs over the seat of the Ski-Doo. Napoleon leaned forward to wrap his arms around his waist as the engine roared to life. > Illya muttered in Russian, not quite quiet enough to be overpowered by the engine. Which revved in response to Napolen’s laughter.

\--

Gaby was minutes away from calling in reinforcements when Solo and Illya stumbled into the room. She was grateful because they had been warned before their mission started that reinforcements would take time to gather and would blow their covers. Since they had already destroyed a key piece to the criminals plans for nuclear war and stolen documents that detailed the criminals plans as well as information on their primary source of income… well, Gaby couldn’t be sure that Waverly would have placed Illya and Napoleon’s lives over the mission. They had what they needed and Waverly had bizarre amounts of faith in the skills of his assets. 

Napoleon looked severely out of sorts, pale, blue lipped, and dressed in another man’s coat. His boots are another man’s boots, they are tied tight at his ankles but clearly at least a size too large for him. Water dripped from his pants and his hair was crusted in ice. Illya’s nose and hands were reddened and chafed by the cold, the look in his eyes was murderous. How the two of them had managed to make it to their rooms without someone calling for the police was beyond her. Or perhaps the police were right now approaching their rooms, a worry for another time.

“What happened?” Gaby asked as Illya stripped Napoleon’s borrowed coat off and handed it to her when she reached for it. 

 

“A fight on thin ice.” Illya’s accent thickened when he was upset, Gaby was likely lucky he was not speaking Russian. 

The coat’s material had a large red stain on the front that had turned slightly tacky in the cold. The best bet would be to incinerate it, destroy the evidence, but the coat was thick and likely would not take to being tossed into the fireplace well, instead she bundled it up tightly and stuffed it behind their luggage in the closet. Illya had pulled Solo’s sweater halfway up his chest by the time she turned around and had been stopped by Solo himself.

“The two of you,” shivers racked Solo’s body and his teeth chattered, he strained to stop himself from giving away how cold he was, an obvious strain that made her want to slap him. Didn’t he know the shivering was a good sign? “The two- you don’t need to…” he let out a shuddering breath of air, “just get me a scotch,” Gaby flinched and headed towards the phone, she’d ring room service, “and a hot bath-”

“Nyet.” Illya interrupted before Solo could get any further. “Hot bath and scotch will _kill you_.” He stressed the last two words by slapping away Napoleon’s hands and yanking the man’s turtleneck up to his shoulders. Solo had little choice now, trapped by fabric as he was, between allowing Illya to strip him or looking foolish. They all knew Solo hated looking foolish. He lifted his arms and allowed the wet fabric to be pulled upwards with a sucking, slick sound. It mussed his hair terribly.

The tinny voice on the other side of the phone asked Gaby if she was there.

“Yes, hello,” thank god for Waverly’s taste in expensive hotels that spoke English, while Solo seemed a natural at picking up languages and Illya had some skill anything on the European continent, Gaby was still playing catchup when it came to foreign tongues, “a pot of hot chocolate for my room, please. As quickly as possible.”

She didn’t mention that the sooner the chocolate got there the larger the tip would be. She had already proved herself an exorbitant tipper to make up for Illya’s penny pinching and Solo’s habit of seducing the waitress to get out a check. Not that Solo was staying in the room with them but it would have been a very lax hotel not to notice the frequent trips made between rooms.

Illya reached for Solo’s belt only to have _his_ hands slapped away. Napoleon’s blue tipped lips were pressed together in a thin line.

“Did not think you were shy, Cowboy.” 

“I’m n-n-” Gaby rolled her eyes as Napoleon stuttered denials and steely gaze met steely gaze. There were no spare blankets in their hotel room, a pity, but she could pull the comforter off the bed easily enough. The robe the hotel had provided for Illya hung, unused, off of the back of the bathroom door and she fetched that as well. When she returned, lugging her haul, the two idiots were still facing off near the door. Solo’s undershirt had been stripped, at least, but he still wore his pants and had added a mutinous expression as well. His fingers, cold and clumsy, fumbled with his belt. 

“It might go faster if you looked at your belt, you know.” She fought to hold back a laugh, Napoleon dying because he was too stubborn to accept their help was hardly a laughing manner but the great Napoleon Solo sulked like a child and that was. 

Napoleon shot her a look that made it clear she hadn’t managed to keep her amusement out of her voice. She smirked back at him.

“He would lose the staring contest.” Illya’s own amusement was edged with frustration and accented by his gritted teeth. His fingers flexed and Napoleon went right back to staring him down. 

“Then Peril would try to help.” Napoleon informed her though gritted teeth, a vain attempt to stop them from chattering, vain in both senses of the word. He couldn’t help the shivers that ripped through him with every other breath and she wished he would stop trying. “I am not a child.”

“You are acting like one.” Gaby and Illya both snapped at him. Gaby looked at Illya with raised eyebrows, Illya glanced at her, then back at Napoleon (who smirked at winning the contest) then back to her. He nodded. They both turned to Napoleon and moved, perhaps not as coordinated as the finely oiled machine they could be than at least faster and more coordinated than a cold struck Napoleon. 

Illya grabbed Solo’s hands and twisted them sharply over his head, he held them tight enough Napoleon could not instantly slip away and high enough that Napoleon had to stretch onto his toes, preventing him from kicking out at either Illya or Gaby. After all, an attempt to kick them that ended with him flat on his back, or his face, or into Illya’s arms would likely be more humiliating than allowing them to strip him. Gaby hoped so, at least, she would rather not get kicked. Napoleon’s indignity meant he had no way to escape Gaby’s quick fingers (though he tried by twisting his hips out of the way) she flicked Napoleon’s belt and fly open and peeled the damp trousers down his hips.

“Careful.” Napoleon strained his neck to stare down at her. “They cost…” He shivered hard, hard enough it almost broke Illya’s hold, his nipples were stiff nubs on his chest and goosepimples crawled up the exposed skin of his arms. “Well, the water l-likely ruined them anyway.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “The crease will never be the same.”

She shook her head at the expense and the loss. She had rather liked those trousers but then, nigh half of Napoleon’s trousers looked the same to her. “Trust you to wear designer clothes to investigate-” 

She began undoing the stiff, cold laces of his boots with quick, angry jerks. 

“And burgle.” Napoleon interrupted.

“And _burgle_ ,” she sighed, the boots finally loose enough they could be pulled off, “an illegal weapons factory.”

Of course, to get the boots off, Napoleon would need to sit or lift his feet. Gaby looked up at Napoleon from her position on her knees and met his gaze. He looked tired as well as cold but he was still Napoleon Solo. He slowly raised his eyebrows at her. “Here I thought you were going to strip me to my skin.” Napoleon commented, challenge glinted in his eyes. 

Gaby had a lot going for her as a spy but, unlike Solo, she could be flustered and unlike Illya her blushes showed bright red on her cheeks. She glared at Napoleon even as she blushed. “You could take care of some of this.”

It was all a show for Napoleon, however, and he sighed and raised his gaze to the ceiling as his thumbs slipped under the waistband of his underwear. That was when Gaby realized that she was on her knees in front of Napoleon Solo’s soon to be uncovered penis. Part of her was tempted to stay there, not like Napoleon’s naked groin would be the first dick she had ever seen but she was… curious. Napoleon had a lot of experience and, if the sounds the women he slept with rang true, was very good at pleasing a woman. Would his dick be different from Hanke’s? Wendel’s penis had been large but the talk around the shop had always been that he was no good with it. 

Underwear pushed down enough to tease at the thick hair that lead to his groin Napoleon was suddenly pulled backward, away from Gaby. Gaby watched, eyes wide, as he was pulled straight against Illya and then, when Illya fell back against the couch with a _whump_ onto Illya’s lap. Napoleon looked surprised too and he couldn’t cover it up fast enough, a shudder distracting him from his attempts at subterfuge. 

“Illya.” Gaby sighed, he could be needlessly protective. “It’s not like he’s got anything I haven’t seen before.”

Illya frowned over Napoleon’s shoulder.

“Peril.” Napoleon shook his head slowly. “Truly-”

Illya kicked at Napoleon’s tangled boots and pants effectively, they hit the floor with a thump, then he grabbed the comforter Gaby had brought out and wrapped Napoleon tightly in it. “Perhaps I do not want to see Cowboy’s dick.” This time the blush was no longer contained to the back of his neck and ears but instead suffused his whole face. Gaby placed her hand over her mouth to hide a smile. “Perhaps I have shame.”

Napoleon squirmed in his comforter bundle and eventually a pair of white shorts dropped on top of his bundle of wet pants. “I never would have guessed.”

There was a knock at the door, room service, with their hot chocolate. Gaby glanced at Illya, he reached for his gun and they went to fetch it together.

\--

The cocoa smelled delicious, it looked delicious as well, thick and chocolatey and steaming. Illya could not help but smell it, see it, want to _taste_ it as he sat next to Solo. Gaby sat across from them, her feet rested on the hotel coffee table and a cup of cocoa was cradled in one of her hands, the other had a precarious hold on a tawdry looking book. An American dime novel, the kind of tawdry capitalist nonsense that would get Gaby into trouble in the wrong country. It was called Lost on Twilight Road and the cover showed a bare-breasted woman in red underwear accosting a young man. Despite his best efforts Illya’s gaze kept being drawn back to it.

Tonight seemed to be a night of temptation for him. He regretted bringing nothing for distraction but his travel chess set. He wasn’t in the right mindset for chess, which was a shame. He rarely got the chance to do more than set up the board much less enough downtime to play a few moves. And now since Waverly had told them they should stick together until they left in the morning Illya found he had a great deal of time but no wish to recreate past matches or imagine a new one. He could have challenged either of his teammates to a game, he supposed, but Gaby had no interest in learning to play chess and Solo was a terror to play with. He had no interest in the actual game of chess, he was more interested in the reactions he could evoke from Illya while they played.

Illya set his knight down for the third time. He could finish packing their bags, or he could perform a surveillance sweep of the hotel. He should do either of these things, in fact, someone could have followed them. Illya had been more concerned with haste than subtlety. 

“Are you going to play that horse,” Gaby questioned, “or just play with it?”

She had not looked up from her book to question him. She had also not turned a page since changing into her pajamas and sitting down with it.

“In English it is a knight.” Illya glanced at Solo who blinked slowly at him, faux innocent. He had shucked off his pallor and looked almost normal, almost, that is, except for the heavy bags under his eyes, the mussed state of his hair and his current state of dress. “A white knight.” Solo’s smirk was as slow as honey. “Oh, Peril,”

“No.” Illya knew there was no stopping Solo.

“I think we have a new nickname.” Solo’s smirk was a grin and color flushed his cheeks. “Since you-”

“I am no white knight.” Illya wished to curse at Solo but it was not in his nature, he did not like to swear out loud. Despite his own personal feelings on the subject there were things in his past… well, white knight he was not. He might have dreamed of being the kind of man who could save the princess and defeat the witch but, he glanced at Gaby, he had found that princesses saved themselves and that knights were controlled by the player. “In Union we call it horse as well.”

That should settle the remarks, he hoped, from the twist to Gaby’s lips he suspected she was thinking of the comments her uncle had made. He did not look at Solo, to look at Napoleon was to give him encouragement. He liked to be looked at.

“Ah, but if you end the game early,” apparently he did not need encouragement, “you deny Gaby her chance to be the Queen.”

Solo muttered something then, something that Illya only half heard but had both him and Gaby snapping their attention the American’s way.

“Did you just say ‘and the chance to ride you into battle?’” Gaby’s tone was incredulous, her volume deplorably loud. “I know you love a good double entendre but that one was…”

“It wasn’t really much of an entendre at all.” When Solo shrugged the comforter slipped down to expose bare shoulders. “I do apologize if I’m not up to much wordplay. Near death experience and all that.”

Illya did not buy it.

“A dark horse and a black queen, they’re good codenames.” Gaby picked up the black knight and stroked a finger over its mane. Illya preferred to be a ‘dark horse’, he felt that suited him better than white knight. Plus, it put him on the same side as Gaby who was… who was very well suited to be the black queen. White always made the first moves, after all, and Gaby was never one to make a move without studying the other sides’ plans. “But what are you, Napoleon?”

Napoleon did not shrink under their scrutiny, although he pasted on one of his pleasant ‘I’m not conning you out of your jewelry’ smiles. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Gaby studied the board but she did not know the pieces, nor their personalities. Illya reached into the discarded pile to pick out the black bishop. He tossed it Napoleon’s way. Napoleon, unable to back down from a challenge, caught the piece and the comforter dropped open to his waist. He sighed. “A bishop?”

“Never moves in a straight line and stands between queen and her knight.” Illya shrugged. “I could think of no piece more fitting.”

Napoleon smiled.


End file.
